I'm not alone!

Secretly, I must be a blonde.

Mace Windu's Lego Creations, Episode 3, the Revenge

Monster Truck
It smashes over cars and breaks them. It bumps cars out of it's way. BUT he is actually a really nice guy. He only bumps into other trucks and cars because he has such big wheels. He also skids around corners very well ( but he still obeys the law... Mace wants to stress that he's a good guy.)

Dr. W or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Mesclun Greens...

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a very cynical being. Don't know if that's due to being the daughter of a Philosophy Professor and a Lawyer or if it's just innate to my personality. Whatever. I am a VERY cynical person. So when my Mom went on another diet, I didn't have much hope for it's success. My Mom has an iron will, don't get me wrong. She's a strong but extremely loving person. But I look at diets the way one would look at being tortured in a third world country: By the third day, no matter how strong you are, you break.

Mom's on year two of the South Beach Diet and doing fine, thank you.

I'm a large woman. My Grandmother was large too. And for a while, my Mom, though frustrated about it, was large as well. Genetics, I figure, played a part in my shape. I am a logical, reason-centered person. Except when sleep deprived... and as a mom, myself, that tends to happen rather more frequently that I would like these days. Nevertheless.... I believe in the scientific method. PLUS I have worked in the book industry long enough to know how many diet books penned by doctors come out each year and how many are refuted within months by other, just as reputable, doctors. In short, I just don't trust'em. No sir.

Have I mentioned that Mom's on year two successfully, thank you? Well she is.

OK, so I'm gonna concede this one. Where once, J and I would not, would not in a box , would not, would not with a fox, now we are going to try it. Look out low-fat dairy products, here we come.

We'll let you know how it goes....

Photo Courtesy of PDPhoto.org

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Fiasco

So on Saturday we went to Doors Open Toronto, for the first time ever. A friend (the Mom of one of M's school chums) told us they were planning to go to the Cadbury chocolate factory, and would we like to join them? Of course we said yes; kids, chocolate, cool old architecture? How could we go wrong?

So, it's a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and we head down to the factory. It was about 1:15, and we expected the line to be pretty huge. And it was. Thankfully, parking was not a problem, for which I am very grateful. We got in line, and a few minutes later, M's friend and his family showed up. The kids were happy just to be together, never mind the factory. Which is good, because we were in line for an hour before we actually got to go in. But when it was finally our turn, the kids were cheering and whooping with joy. And then we went in.

So here's the scene (are we all wearing our imagination caps?): you're in the front foyer, and there's a person there to greet you and tell you about the building. Then you see the map, and after a very brief perusal realize that there are, including the foyer where you are now standing, FOUR THINGS LISTED ON THE MAP. They are:

• A (two-room) museum, where you can see some really old chocolate paraphenalia, and get to visit what was, until recently, the president's office. There are many relics placed around the office, few or none of which were protected, which left the poor soul manning the office constantly having to ask everyone not to touch anything.
• A sort of meeting room with a small raised stage where they were giving lectures about the chocolate making process. I don't know about you, but while M would be thrilled to WATCH chocolate being made, there ain't no way he's going to sit still and listen to someone talk about it
• The store. Ah, the store. The store, you see, isn't usually open to the public. It isn't even open to employees. The only time the company opens it is for school tours. Now compare the size of your average class tour to the literally thousands of people coming to see the factory on that one day, and you begin to see the next logistical nightmare looming. Add to that all the people who had been standing outside in line for so long, only to discover there was nothing actually to SEE, and who, in frustration, decided that, at the very least, they were going to buy some chocolate thank you very much, and you have a recipe for, well, a mess. So they could only let people into the store in small groups. And the store only had one cash register. And the two people working the cash were both volunteers, and while I have nothing but admiration for their ability to remain cheery in such a situation, it was obvious they did not have much, if any, retail experience. So, believe it or not, we were actually in line in the store longer than we were in line outside to get in. Luckily for the kids, the one thing the store did have was a large electric train table right smack dab in the middle of the store. So that kept them from going completely insane with still more waiting.

Oh, and the air conditioning had not yet been turned on. Of course.

So, by the time we got out of there, we were very relieved to get out of there. We had seen nothing of the factory floor or got to see how chocolate was made; we didn't get to see barely any of the old architecture of the building; heck, they didn't even tell us the Caramilk secret! And then, to top it all off, as we're trying to drive home in what has become a very hot day, we hit a protest march coming along Bloor. At that point, we began to think some higher power was trying to tell us something.

I hope the Cadbury folks learn from their mistakes this year; I appreciate that it's the first year, and things are going to go wrong. But if the factory is open again next year, let someone else go first and tell you if things have in fact improved.

Tee Many Martoonies

T came over for dinner and a schluff last night ( Schluff= kipped at mine on the guest bed). I LOVE when T comes over for a tipple, talk and schluff. We ordered in Chinese, I had a glass of red, he had a glass of white and we talked into the wee hours of the morning. About everything. Life, love, work, kids ('cause although T doesn't have kids, he has a remarkable understanding of parents and parenthood.)

But man, I'm in pain today.

One glass. One glass red. Up until 1 am.

Ouchie.

When the hell did that happen? I remember up all night, several glasses of red and no pain. Was that me? Maybe I'm thinking of Holly Golightly. No, wait. I'm fatter. That was me up all night. Am I old already? When the poop did that happen?

Bum and Trotsky.

Tonight, bedtime at 9, no CSI. Get some sleep and do the food shopping tomorrow. Yup. That sounds wonderful. Sleep and food. Goodstuff.

Wonder when T will be ready for another early nighter and single glass booze....

Photo courtesy of istockphoto

Today's Specials....

Today, M and I definitively proved that it really isn't possible to put TOO much icing on a cupcake.

Photo courtesy of istockphoto

Missing Stacey

I'm about to get on my melodramatic soapbox in a big way, so anyone who doesn't like that kind of thing should bugger off, OK?

This beautiful, intelligent and sensitive person was named Stacey. She was my best friend. If one were able to pick one's siblings, I would have chosen her as my sister. She died last year due to complications arising from her long struggle with anorexia and bulemia. She would have hated that I'm outing her here. (Sorry Stace.) But since her passing, I have inadvertently learnt about several other cases of severe anorexia.

It wasn't so long ago that anorexia seemed like something that you only heard about or saw in a movie of the week. But it seems to be everywhere now. And we have no real understanding of the disease. Even the people who have been studying it for eons are baffled as to how to treat it. I know that in Stace's case, she was taking out all her sadness and anger towards other people, on herself. I know that she felt unloved where she should have felt unconditional love. I also know that no matter how much love and care and tending her friends provided, it wasn't enough to make her pain go away. It wasn't enough to convince her that life was worth living. I know that, for someone who wasn't able to cope with the myriad of abuses in her own life, she was uncommonly wise. Her wisdom led us, her friends, through all the little difficulties in our lives.

The world lost a gem when Stace died.

I lost family.

But People, there are tonnes of other people out there dying from this. Slowly killing themselves by starvation. We NEED to figure what's going on. We need to find out why women... girls ( and, indeed, a growing number of young men) are torturing themselves to death. You can't look away. You can't pretend it's not happening or that it will just heal itself. It doesn't. You have to fight this battle head on. I know too may people who pretend this is just a passing phase or that it's chronic. It's not chronic. You don't live with it, you die of it. Stace died of it.

In my little way, I've been trying to fight this battle. I'm not anorexic or bulemic. But I've recently been encountering many people who are losing friends and family to these diseases. I tell them about Stacey. I offer all the resources I have. SO. To that end, you will find in the Link List on the right hand side a link to Sheena's Place. It's one of many support and therapy groups that's run here in Toronto.

I hope it helps.

Lines in the Sandbox

OK. Recently, T posted a blog about the incredible differences between life as we knew it growing up and life for children now. He talked about parents literally hovering over their kids in an already protected environment. I read it and, as a parent... well, really, as a Jewish Parent ( what's the difference between a Jewish mother and a Pit Bull? At some point the Pit Bull will let go...) I said "Things are different today. Times are complicated and dangers are everywhere. Not only do we transfer to our kids our fear of the dangers of the street but also of this ethereal world on the Internet."

In addition, these days, we are also judged not only by our kids (read: "Aw, c'mon Mom, Timmy's doing it...") but also by the many societal resources set up to protect them. When M bonked his head on his bedroom doorjam as a 2 year old and split his forehead wide open... we got calls for three months afterwards from the hospital making sure that the event was indeed an accident. M was 2 and not steady on his pins. He tripped and fell headlong into the only area of my house that I hadn't completely covered with foam rubber. Yet I felt ( hell, still feel) horribly guilty that I hadn't managed to protect him....

Well, T. I had proof positive that you are right on the money about this over protection thing (Though I still temper my beliefs with my Jewish-mother-over-protection instincts... He's my baaaaby!)

Each child at M's school got sent home with a notice telling us that wearing sandals in the summer is a playground safety hazard. Sandals.... Wearing sandals.

OK.

That's my line in the sandbox and the Principal just crossed it.

It's summer. It's hot. Please let my kid know the joy of the sand and the wind between his toes. It a small pleasure, really. He can't go outside all day long and just play. Not even in our own backyard. I have to be there. Or another trusted parent has to be there. He has to be regularly slathered with lotion, covered from head to toe in UV protective clothing and watched to ensure he plays safe. I'm good with that. I would worry otherwise. Even though my own parents would open the door and say 'See ya at dinner...' when I was a kid.( As I said, that was a different time....) I can't do that for M. It's too dangerous.

But sandals are part of summer, like ice cream, like beach towels.... Summer is about playing in the sandbox and squishing the sand between your fingers and toes. Then watching the sand slowly wash off in the paddling pool....

Aw, c'mon... Ms. Principal, Timmy is doing it....


(Photo courtesy of istockphoto)

POOP!

Ask me what my plans for this weekend were. Go ahead. Ask me.

Saturday, with my wee monster spending the night at Buby Grandpapa's, J and I were going to have a jammy day. That's right. Spend the whole day, just me and my guy, in our PJs watching good movies, cuddling, laughing our heads off and eating yummy junk food ( Except for dinner... Homemade Pizzas... Gourmet with pancetta, moroccan olives, roasted red peppers...Good Stuff!) Then a nice early night to bed and a huge sleep in. Ahhhhh. I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

Then, after a solid rest, I could face a productive day of work with one of my favourite clients.

Now. Ask me what actually happened this weekend.

Go ahead.

Ask.

Snot, sleeplessness, grumping, stomping, yelling... the only part of the weekend that stuck was the wardrobe. We were all (read: child too sick to sleep over at grandparents' place) in our jammas but hacking up our lungs and sneezing. No rest, no junk food (OK, we had the pizzas but we couldn't really TASTE them...) and BAD movies... TBS bad movies...ugh.

What is it about our bodies that disease kicks in the moment we plan to rest?!? I WANNA KNOW WHO THE HELL THIS MURPHY GUY IS AND WHAT'S WITH THE DAMN LAWS!!!!

That's it. I'm done.
Now, could you please hand me a hanky? I'm gonna sneeze....
Thanks.

I LOVE United Bakers

No, they're not a footy team. It's a restaurant that J and I sometimes visit of a Tuesday morning when our cleaning lady comes to work. (I'm tidy, not clean. There's a difference.)
The food is always amazing. Kosher dairy but they bake on premises ( Translation: fresh baked bagels with whipped cream cheese and lox. It don't get better than that BUT NO BACON). We had this amazing waitress. Very friendly, chatty but not that kind of obnoxious 'I have to be uber sweet because my boss is watching' friendly... Just nice ( I know, that horrible 'n' word).

It got me thinking about our cleaning lady too. She's been looking after and out for my household since I was 12 or 13 years old. She's always smiling, always doing extra things for us...Going into corners where angels fear to tread. She gives my son presents on the holidays and hugs everytime she sees him; she gives us support and stories of life. Her wisdom. Her care.

These people... They give me hope.

I remember being in retail. (You can't make me go back, unh unh, no way...) I remember having each day those customers who made you feel either invisible or worthless... And then getting assessed by those same people on your ability to help them. Retail and cleaning are thankless jobs. It takes a strong character to clean other people's toilets ( So says TV John from Hamish Macbeth) and a strong ability to hold your tongue in the face of obnoxious customers.
Though we thanked our waitress in words and extra dosh, though I thank my cleaning lady everytime I see her, I thought a written 'thank you' was meritted as well.

Thanks. Your hard work is appreciated. Really.

NOTES FROM A BLANK MIND

I have no idea where I am going to go with this Blog. I guess I'll just have to peek out from underneath the box and see what's what....